……."Ah yes, but what a shame, what a shame, the poor groom's bride is a whore!" No I’m not decrying somebody’s wedding day I originally wanted to throw in for my title a quote or something from Fantastic Four: Rise of the silver surfer, which I watched last night at the cinema. However I will be 100% honest with you my dear readers I was so underwhelemed by it that I can’t actually remember any good lines from the film however using special stu-o-vision I can now save you 89 mins of your life by giving you a complete rundown of the film. So here we go…..
Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer.
Planet goes boom, streak of silver makes it’s way towards earth.
Sue and Reed are planning to get married complete with jokes about endorsement deals. (It is at this stage where we notice that Sue aka Jessica Alba now looks like Barbie or at the very least one of Hitlers ideal for the master race.)
Hackneyed dialogue, Reeds Stag night, big soldier tells reed to build a sensor or some such. Reed says no his wedding to Sue is vastly more important to him, he then proceeds to make sensor anyway.
The Wedding day, Reed is continuing to make his sensor complete with remote input device supplied by Nokia (They don’t just make cell phones you know). Meanwhile Sue discovers a zit!!!! Gosh no, disaster averted she renders it invisible while at the same time talking to the films resident token minority and blind woman. Who of course see’s clearer than anybody else despite her lack of site, after all this is Hollywood.
The ceremony, oh no that silver streak thingy has turned up in New York and is ruining Sue and Reeds wedding. Time to go Bridezilla on his arse, but wait a helicopter is crashing on the roof of the Baxter building! Invisible woman to the rescue while Johnnie yells flame on and chases after this silver streak thingy. Chase ensues, silver streak thingy is actually a surfer wrapped in baco foil. He grabs hold of Johnnie takes him up into the planets upper atmosphere where his flame extinguishes before flinging him back to earth. Falling and falling he manages to for a short time flame on once again saving himself from death, but prolonging our misery.
The lab “He was like some kind of silver dude on a surf board” Johnnie informs the team before being told that his contact with the ‘Silver Surfer’ has somehow enabled him to switch powers with the others. Cue jokey scene with the thing. They work out where the surfer will next appear and travel to London. All reality goes out of the window in London as everybody there speaks English, there isn’t even a single Australian backpacker trying to get a job in the pub. Cue dramatic London Eye rescue that almost goes wrong.
Cue dressing down by big soldier dude who announces that the four obviously can’t do it by themselves and that they have brought in somebody else, ominous music, It’s Doctor Victor Von Doom!!!!! That’s right the mad evil genius who wanted to take over the world in the first film is back and the US have called him in to help!!!!
At this stage I got somewhat bored, needless to say, Silver surfer captured and tortured, Doom nicks his surfboard, Sue killed then resurrected. Surfer laying dead in space after destroying Gallactus the destroyer of worlds (aka his boss) Sue and Reed finally get married, blast off at ludicrous speed in the fantasticar that appears to be made by Dodge (so when will that be available to buy at the dealership and what will the extras package be like?) Unfortunate third sequel waits in the wings.
So there we go I have managed to save you 89 minutes of your life by giving you a full breakdown of one of this years Summer blockbusters. Of course if you are 11 you will no doubt love this movie, anybody else will be left leaving the cinema thinking “Well there’s that one then.” It’s not terrible, but it’s by no means brilliant.
Thursday, 21 June 2007
Monday, 11 June 2007
Tell me why……
……I don’t like Mondays. It’s okay, I haven’t turned into Bob Geldof, I genuinely honestly can’t stand Mondays. I mean for one thing it’s signifies that the weekend is very much over and for another it’s just full of pure crapiness. Mondays are the day when the bills turn up after a weekend of fun, Mondays are the day when nine out of ten of us return back to the soul crushing world of work (you show me somebody who turns round and says that they 100% love work and I will show you a liar.)
So today I have decided that something must be done about the worst day of the week. One idea is we introduce a three day weekend, but all that really does is shift the crapiness that is Monday onto the day with potential, Tuesday. Another idea was enforced eating of cheesecake on a Monday, not a slice you understand, but a whole one. That was until somebody pointed out the plight of the lactose intolerant (personally I think that’s just a fancy way of saying “I don’t like cheese”). But then it came to me, something that would brighten our Mondays, is environmentally sound and could also be seen as a much needed social service.
Organised Chav culling! Now stay with me here but think about it. How many times have you been cut up on a duel carriageway by some little shit in his 1.2l Chavhall Corsa that looks like it’s been covered in double sided sticky tape and driven through the crass accessories department of Halfords? Or how many of you have been caught behind some chavette in Asda trying to pay for a bottle of white lightening and pack of pampers all in five pence pieces? Well think of it, an organised weekly Chav hunt would not only boost moral, but would also solve all of these problems. It would help to cut dole claims by half (if not more) and more importantly would make Mondays worth waking up for.
Is it morally wrong? Some people will say yes. I personally think it’s more morally wrong not to do it.
So today I have decided that something must be done about the worst day of the week. One idea is we introduce a three day weekend, but all that really does is shift the crapiness that is Monday onto the day with potential, Tuesday. Another idea was enforced eating of cheesecake on a Monday, not a slice you understand, but a whole one. That was until somebody pointed out the plight of the lactose intolerant (personally I think that’s just a fancy way of saying “I don’t like cheese”). But then it came to me, something that would brighten our Mondays, is environmentally sound and could also be seen as a much needed social service.
Organised Chav culling! Now stay with me here but think about it. How many times have you been cut up on a duel carriageway by some little shit in his 1.2l Chavhall Corsa that looks like it’s been covered in double sided sticky tape and driven through the crass accessories department of Halfords? Or how many of you have been caught behind some chavette in Asda trying to pay for a bottle of white lightening and pack of pampers all in five pence pieces? Well think of it, an organised weekly Chav hunt would not only boost moral, but would also solve all of these problems. It would help to cut dole claims by half (if not more) and more importantly would make Mondays worth waking up for.
Is it morally wrong? Some people will say yes. I personally think it’s more morally wrong not to do it.
Saturday, 9 June 2007
Summertime and the living is easy....
.......unless of course like me and thousands of others you suffer with Hay fever.
That's right, summer is finally here and it doesn't look like it's going to be the typical British affair of two weeks of blazing sun, pasty white legs in ill fitting shorts and teenage mothers rushing to spend the family allowance on white lightning for a picnic in the park with little Mercedes, Porsche or for the really classy Latrine.
It's now just gone ten in the morning and already one of my eyes is more bloodshot than a Lebanese prostitute's who has offered a questionable 'extra' to a client. I would post a picture but if the Lebanese prostitute joke hasn't put you off your coffee, breakfast or anything else you choose to have while surfing the Internet, that picture would.
It's the morning after a rather quiet but all the same alcohol fueled Friday night in the local pub (which ironically enough isn't local at nearly 20 miles away), and as per usual I feel absolutely fine. The other half is doing his whole Saturday morning lie in thing, which is fine by me, hell it's a bloody good idea when you look at the state of Saturday morning TV these days. Gone are our faithful friends that were once the staple of a Saturday morning. You know the ones I'm talking about. Live and Kicking, SM:TV, Grandstand and the rest, to be replaced by 82 different cookery programs one of which is hosted by the fat ginger bloke we all hate, or as he probably prefers to be called Anthony Worral Thompson or AWT. Of course it would be more appropriate just to call him TWAT.
Don't get me wrong, I like cookery programmes, I have an exceptionally healthy relationship with food but, do I really honestly need to watch at ten in the morning somebody gutting a trout (and I do mean the fish, not Anne Widdecombe, that after all I would pay to see) and showing me how to cook it and serve it with something shit like a Juniper berry and cream dipping sauce? The answer is no I don’t. Want I want on a Saturday morning is brain dead TV. Especially when only twelve hours ago I was pickling the grey matter in a heady concoction of Cider, Beer and drain cleaner aka the pub standard house double Vodka.
Alas though, Saturday morning is now dead and there isn’t much left to do. Oh well I think time for a bacon and egg sandwich a cup of coffee and watching one of those shocking cookery programmes. If nothing else it’s better than the crapness that is big brother.
That's right, summer is finally here and it doesn't look like it's going to be the typical British affair of two weeks of blazing sun, pasty white legs in ill fitting shorts and teenage mothers rushing to spend the family allowance on white lightning for a picnic in the park with little Mercedes, Porsche or for the really classy Latrine.
It's now just gone ten in the morning and already one of my eyes is more bloodshot than a Lebanese prostitute's who has offered a questionable 'extra' to a client. I would post a picture but if the Lebanese prostitute joke hasn't put you off your coffee, breakfast or anything else you choose to have while surfing the Internet, that picture would.
It's the morning after a rather quiet but all the same alcohol fueled Friday night in the local pub (which ironically enough isn't local at nearly 20 miles away), and as per usual I feel absolutely fine. The other half is doing his whole Saturday morning lie in thing, which is fine by me, hell it's a bloody good idea when you look at the state of Saturday morning TV these days. Gone are our faithful friends that were once the staple of a Saturday morning. You know the ones I'm talking about. Live and Kicking, SM:TV, Grandstand and the rest, to be replaced by 82 different cookery programs one of which is hosted by the fat ginger bloke we all hate, or as he probably prefers to be called Anthony Worral Thompson or AWT. Of course it would be more appropriate just to call him TWAT.
Don't get me wrong, I like cookery programmes, I have an exceptionally healthy relationship with food but, do I really honestly need to watch at ten in the morning somebody gutting a trout (and I do mean the fish, not Anne Widdecombe, that after all I would pay to see) and showing me how to cook it and serve it with something shit like a Juniper berry and cream dipping sauce? The answer is no I don’t. Want I want on a Saturday morning is brain dead TV. Especially when only twelve hours ago I was pickling the grey matter in a heady concoction of Cider, Beer and drain cleaner aka the pub standard house double Vodka.
Alas though, Saturday morning is now dead and there isn’t much left to do. Oh well I think time for a bacon and egg sandwich a cup of coffee and watching one of those shocking cookery programmes. If nothing else it’s better than the crapness that is big brother.
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